I have decided not to whine any more about the weather. I have just realized that most of the northern hemisphere is suffering from cold and ice and snow. I am riding the school van to and from school so I don’t have to walk on the icy and snow-slick roads and sidewalks thanks to my bosses and bus drives and bus monitors at Spring School. They all look after me and help me over the icy parts. Yes, i feel old and feeble, but, it’s very kind of them to care.

The Grandmothers came for dinner this evening. For a week my family and I have been in a discussion: what to fix–chicken and dumplings or chili. The cold, snow, and ice spell that has hit Korea had just about narrowed it down to chili: to get a chicken I would have to got to Hyundai Department Store grocery, about ten blocks away, and lug it home, as well as other ingredients. I could get ground meat at the organic food store, with organic prices, on the corner. J.J. had sent me some taco and some fajita seasoning, so I figured by combining the two I would come pretty close to chili.

Friday I got a hair cut and on the way home stopped at the new GS grocery–the one that was being completely renovated the last time I wanted to buy a chicken. This time, the meat counter was intact, and it had chicken and chopped beef. I bought both. This way, per family request, I had a choice. So when I got home, I made both: chicken and dumplings and chili.

I am forever in the debt of the ladies in the English class I worked with in Hungary: they taught me to make dumplings. Gathering unfamiliar ingredients to make a familiar dish is appos pos here: much guess work. But it worked out fine.

My house and therefore the stairwell of my apartment building reeked of chili and boiling chicken. The steam raised the temperature in my apartment to where the heat was coming from above as well as below the heated floors.

Four of the “Grandmothers”–they’re not all grandmothers, but some of them are and some are my children’s age–came bearing gifts: fresh strawberries, fresh tomatoes, an elegant, hand made tea set, and a six pack of Maegoli–a carbonated rice wine that I have come to love more than beer. I had cleaned, mopped, hidden, and put away most of what gets in the way in my apartment–an excellent exercise for me since I will soon be leaving and need to get all this in perspective.

We talked, we laughed, we looked at the pictureS J.J. had put on the digital picture frame for me–I think they have made me more of a real person for the Grandmothers, a person with a family and a past. Thanks, J.

We ate hor d’ouvres: olives, chips and Pace piquante sauce, candied pecans from Linda’s mom–a real hit–, and roased peanutes in the shell. Again, we talked, we laughed, we ate.

For dinner we moved into the kitchen–me in a chair and they on the floor (I would do the floor, but my getting up is not a pretty picture). Most chose the chicken and dumplings. I was surprised. I thought Koreans liked spicy food. Mrs. Han is just back from Austin, which she loved. Sunny was interested in the books I had asked her to go through to find ones she wanted. Mrs. Kim talked about the Lunar New Year. Mrs. Ann and I talked about the music I had going on iTunes on my computer.

Then, I passed out paper and asked them to write down and draw a picture of what they would like me to tell Americans about Korea. Their answers and drawings give such an interesting perspective on Korean culture, history, and life. Thank you, Ladies. You have given me much food for thought as to what to share about this country and its people.

Jasmine tea and Korean coffee along with the Tiramisu Mrs. Kim had brought and the apple coffeee cake I had bought, brought the evening to a close.

It was so good to see them comfortable in my home, enjoying my culinary labors, and laughing, talking, translating among themselves. These ladies have brought me so much of an insight into Korea, its culture, and its people. They have helped to create so many memories. All I can say is thank you—-and why didn’t you try the chile??

I know, I know, I just wrote about how cold it is here. But—it really is cold!

Monday, it snowed all day long. Korea saw the most snow it has seen since 1939. There was no place for the snow to go. Shop keepers tried to shovel it off the side walk and into the street, but then there was the problem of where would the cars go. The piles on the side of the street were huge. I didn’t even venture out of the house on Monday. I know. Chicken, opportunity for history in the making, etc. But it was cold! and it was slippery! and I liked being warm and cozy inside. So no historian here.

Tuesday morning I started at 6:30 a.m. once again trying to get a taxi to work. No taxi. I called Hace and she and a van driver, Mr. Kim, who bring the children to school, came to may apartment and picked me up. Suited me just fine! It’s cold and icy and snowy and slick out there. One slip and “bam!” I could be down with a broken whatever! Did I mention that I am OLD! and FRAGILE!

The kids all seemed to be excited to be back at school and with so many stories to tell: sled rides, snowball fights with Dad, vacation trips to islands, vacation trips to Hong Kong, making snowmen with brother or father. They had lots of good stories for show and tell.

Getting home that evening was another adventure. No, the day didn’t warm up. The snow and the ice were still prevalent. I wandered out to the major street near the school thinking I would hail a taxi. HAH! All the taxis that came my way were full. I tried for almost twenty minutes and gave up and started walking home. The walk that usually takes me twenty minutes took me over an hour. Now, picture this: I have on a camel colored wool coat that is about three sizes too big–it’s huge. I’m bundled up in scarves and caps and gloves so that only two, brown eyes are exposed. And I walk, with eyes constantly downcast, like a penguin. Yep, it seems to be the safest shuffle I can find to contend with the ice and slick snow and the snow drifts. I must truly be a sight, but what the heck! I am one person in a city of eleven million. Few people know me. Few people even care. So I shuffle along, old lady Maxine style just hoping to get to my destination with all bones in tact.

Today, Wednesday, doesn’t seem to be getting any better. Although the major roads are cleared of snow thanks to the military and city people working overtime with front end loaders and dump trucks removing all the snow–that isn’t melting very fast since the temperature isn’t going above freezing, the side streets are still filled with snow tracks and huge piles on the curbs. I saw three cars spinning out, trying to get some traction on these streets. The tracks themselves are very slick, and places I almost fell a couple of times. Of all the shoes, I am wearing my Crocodiles to get to and from work. They have the most traction and the widest foot base of anything I own. Besides, they’re waterproof! However, I still walk like a penguin. Amazing how we relate to animal nomenclature in difficult circumstances. Guess they have it all figured out in the first place.

I did make it to the post office before making my way home. And as the bread shop that I like to buy from is close, I stopped in and bought a few half loaves of walnut bread, and apple tart, and a small loaf of whole grain bread that was still warm. Needless to say, that’s what I had for supper. It was wonderful. Korean bread is very different from U.S. bread, and to find whole grain is truly a FIND.

All points were extremely hard going. I called off my tutoring session simply because the walk was absolutely treacherous. As I get older, I realize how my center of gravity and balance have shifted. I also realize how one fall can be doom. So the penguin walk may become my standard
method of perambulatory exigence.

Did I mention: “It’s cold outside!”

The Year of the Tiger is here. I’m trying to get used to saying twenty-ten. My sister and I had this big discussion of whether it should be two thousand ten or twenty-ten. As she explained, “We wouldn’t have said one thousand nine hundred ten. That whole century we said nineteen whatever.” Looking at it that way, I can go with twenty-ten. I guess twenty oh nine wouldn’t have worked, but now that we’re into numbers ten and above, it does sound right.

It’s cold here. Today, (it’s Monday here even though Xanga says Sunday–international date line and all) one of the warmest days of this week according to the forecast, the temperature will be from five to twenty-four degrees, and it’s snowing–hard. I started trying to get a taxi to work at 6:30 this morning, thinking if I started calling early I could get one by 8:30. About 7:30 the taxi company called and said they couldn’t come. They may have said they weren’t putting taxis out at all, but I’m not sure–broken English, cell phone static, etc. I called the school to say I wasn’t coming in unless it warmed up and I could get a taxi. My walk is over pretty slick sidewalks and streets, so it just doesn’t sound like a good idea to me. About 9 the school called and said classes are canceled.

So “This Day Is Mine.” (My favorite Jerry Reed song–or one of my favorites.)

I thought I would write a little, maybe download all my pictures from Vietnam and Cambodia, read on “The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo” which I am loving, swill hot tea, make soup, get out my winter clothes, wash clothes, knit on the scarf I’m working on, listen to the radio on iTunes, etc.

I need to go to the American Embassy to get some more pages for my passport–I’m completely out–some countries go crazy with those stamps–but that involves a subway or taxi and a walk and I don’t want to do either or any of those. That will have to wait for another day. It’s just that my “other days” are getting fewer.

Yesterday I met Bonnie for brunch at Pancake Square and we went on to the National Museum of Korea to see the Inca exhibit. We took a taxi from Apgujeong since on the map on the internet it looked like it was quite a walk from the subway to the Museum and did I mention, “It’s cold outside!” We had a very nice cab driver who spoke no English, but tried really hard. I had written down the phone number of the Museum, so he called for directions and got us there just fine, although there were moments we thought we were going too far and in the wrong direction, that he thought we had said Incheon–the place where McArthur landed–instead of Ichon, but he did it right.

The exhibit was really good. The only problem with museums in Korea is there is little to no English. The titles on the labels have some English and a few of the introductory posters have English, but none of the individual explanations do and none of the books in the museum store are in English. I had bought a book at YB Bookstore on Saturday called “Horrible Histories: Incredible Incas” that is written for children to make history more interesting. So we kept looking up stuff in my book and reading along with the exhibits–and giggling because the authors look for the unique and the humor in history. Lots of beautiful, intact pottery, textiles that have retained their color, gold and tourquoise jewelry, huge ear plugs that men wore fashionably in their ear lobes–the bigger the plug and the longer the lobe stretch the higher in the pecking order,– weapons, mummies, and instruments used in sacrificial rites–at least I think that’s what it all was according to the few titles and Horrible History.

I have yet to blog about my trip, maybe today. I have had to have a few days to sleep and put into some sort of perspective the overwhelming amount of sites and information I absorbed in four days and two countries. So later.

Our school Christmas program that we have been working on for about three months has finally come to fruition. The kids all did great–I think. I only got to see mine perform, but they were all so excited and looked so good in their costumes and there were no upset directors or parents, it must have gone well.

It was a long day for all of us. We held the program in a wedding hall quite some distance from the school. That meant carting all the kids and all their belongings and all their lunch and water and “just-in-case” stuff. Kim Teacher is really good at organizing my class and getting all their stuff together and then keeping up with it. I think I just walk around in a daze, overwhelmed by it all. She even carried–and used–a comb and spray bottle of water to spruce everyone up before the big production. Emily, one of the teachers of the five year old classes and the ballet teacher and the director of the production, had costumes and props all organized before we got there. She had gone the night before and set it all up–quite an undertaking! But it made our jobs that much easier.

We all assembled in this big room and got ready for the dress rehearsal. The children didn’t sit in the auditorium. They went from the room, down the hall, and lined up outside, waiting for their turn to perform.

Picture this: fifty plus children ages 4-7, excited, hungry, bored, waiting from 10:30-1:30 to do their thing; teachers getting them ready for their costume changes, their parts, trying to keep the noise level down–hah–and keeping up with all the stuff. One dress rehearsal just after we got there before the big show. After that was over, my only thought was, “You mean we have to do this all over again?!”

Picture this: freezing cold rooms and halls and helping little ballerinas into their tutus and little children lining up and waiting for their turn on stage. I had one scary moment: I was helping Hennah out of her Sugar Plum Fairy dance costume and on with her dress and her hair got stuck in the zipper and she was up next and it was the real production! I couldn’t even figure out how her hair got caught much less how to get it out and her hair was in a French braid, so pulling it through was not an option. Miraculously, I worked and worked with it and it came out. But I was really paniced for a few moments.

Picture this: some kids crying, some kids with stage fright, some kids with stage moxie and loving every minute of performing for parents and kin. It was quite an assortment.

The production went well. We had the older children learn lines from “T’was the Night Before Christmas” and intersperse it with Christmas songs and dances performed by all the classes. Most classes had two songs and most of them had some kind of costume and prop. My class, Wisdom and Power, did “Deck the Halls” and “Must be Santa.” I have four boys and three girls. We never know what our boys are going to do–anything from absolute, stubborn refusal, from complete zoning out during singing, to getting extremely loud and verbose. We could only hope that our handmade props would make it through all the rehearsals and to the final show.

At the end of “Deck the Halls” it looked odd that our kids just stood there and sang while all the other classes had choreographed dances and motions and props, so I came up with this idea of green streamers on a long stick that we could grab, hold out, and weave into a Christmas tree–like a Maypole. Uh, the weaving just wasn’t going to happen. Much too complicated. But after Kim figured out how to decorate the streamers, and the kids figured out how to hold them in a J and not pull over the whole tree, it turned out kind of neat.

For “Must Be Santa” the bosses insisted on costumes and bought them all red capes trimmed in white. With their red Santa hats and pom-pom cherry noses stuck on with masking tape, they really did look good as a group on stage. Of course, we had to explain to the boys that these were Superman capes and they looked really wicked in them. They did well. It’s a good thing we were singing along to canned music; otherwise, I don’t think the audience would have known there was actually a song involved to all the motions they were going through since their singing volume was just above a whisper!

It was cold, it was chaos, but Emily and all the teachers and, of course, the children pulled it off. The kids were excited to see their parents and relatives in the audience. They were proud of the job they did. They had fun–which is probably the most important part of the whole exercise.

But picture this: Me, eyes round and glassy eyed, smile weak but trying, head buzzing, and body stumbling to the van to take me back to the school for my after school class wondering, “Is it over yet?” I felt like Goldie Hawn in “Overboard” when Ken and the boys have to put her in the barrel of water and all she can say is “Blub, blub.”

(I’ve included a few picture on the photoblog)

December 17, 2009

For the past week I feel that I am on auto pilot, just going through the motions. I can’t put my finger on the reason why: it could be the below freezing weather that I walk to and from school in; it could be the settling into a routine that has become just that–routine; it could be that my days in Seoul and at this job are quickly coming to a close; it could be the Christmas season and how different it is here compared to home; it could be that this past weekend I faced extremes in humanity–its beauty and its ugliness–and haven’t quite come to terms with all that. And it could be a combination of all that and my brain is just saying, “I think I’ll take a break and let the body just get on with it”: autopilot.

It is really cold here. This morning when I left for work looking and walking like a penguin with all the bundling I had done to keep warm, it was 16 degrees Fahrenheit. (I’m working on recognizing Celsius but subtracting 32 and dividing by 9 and multiplying by 5 just to come up with a new number that tells me it’s cold outside is just too much!). And it didn’t warm up as the day went on. I’m finding I’m not really much good in cold weather. I’d rather be curled up with a warm blanket, a pot of hot tea, and a good book than anywhere else. Therefore: autopilot.

We’re getting close to the Christmas break, and since we’ve been at it since July without much of a break, the routines are entrenched. It’s time for a nice, long break to shake things up and help everyone forget all the things we have been struggling to learn in the past months, so we can begin again. Therefore: autopilot.

I will be leaving Seoul at the end of February, and as the time gets closer, I find my enthusiasm and creativity waning. It’s like I need to wind down this job to make room for the next teacher to take over. I think I unconsciously realize I had better not get too close to my students and colleagues which would make leaving that much more difficult. Therefore: autopilot.

Christmas here is a different kind of holiday. In the U.S. it’s a family time. There are months and months–like way before Halloween–of music and programs and parades and gift ideas and parties and traditions and advent and church services reminding us to remember the real reason for the season. Then the day itself is a day for family–nuclear, extended, or borrowed. Here, there are plenty of lights, and Hyundai Department Store has had a banner up since October reminding us to make Christmas 2010 a Dream Christmas–yep, I don’t get that one either–maybe it’s just a twenty foot typo! But this is not a family season. The music is not the same. The atmosphere is not the same. The churches are still very active reminding us of the reason, and some of their programs are unbelievably beautiful. But it’s not the same. We will work on the 24th. The 25th I will be packing for my trip to Vietnam and Cambodia, and I will leave on the 26th. Therefore: autopilot.

But I think the biggest contributor to my malaise is the emotional extreme of this past weekend. On Saturday Aeran and I went to Seoul Arts Center to watch and listen to the beautiful music to Swan Lake. I think it may have been my first full ballet besides Nutcracker. It was absolutely beautiful. My friend Daphne had sent me all kinds of information about the ballet–the story, what to look for in the dances and the dancers, variations that could happen, nuances in the music. I felt I was prepared. I took my binoculars so I could scrutinize the costumes as well as the facial expressions of the dancers–were they going through the motions or really feeling their parts. Well, I don’t know much about the ballet, but this one was absolutely beautiful. While the major performers were outstanding and did the major moves Daphne had told me to watch out for, the swan chorus stole the show for me. They were so beautiful that I forgot they were dancers and saw them only as swans. Such grace–such synchronization–such beauty! I had no problem with “the suspension of disbelief.” I believed! Tchaikovsky’s music that we are all so familiar with made so much sense when I saw the story unfold. Beauty–music–art–all came together in those two and a half hours on Saturday night.

Sunday I met a group that turned out to be young, college exchange students for the most part and went to the House of Sharing, a home for the remaining Comfort Women conscripted by the Japanese in World War II. It was about an hour’s trip into the countryside to the home and museum to learn these women’s stories and their role in the history of WWII. I thought it was interesting that many of the young women who had come to learn about this had been influenced by their college history and literature courses that emphasized feminism. The museum is well done and informative. The volunteer guides are knowledgeable and sincere in getting out the message about this dark side of history. We met and were delightfully entertained by a couple of the women living in the home, who didn’t come to tell their story–they’ve told it so many times and it’s there for all to read on the web site, http://www.houseofsharing.org/–but came to greet us as welcome visitors. It was interesting that as we were singing and laughing in the gathering hall, we were joined by a group of Japanese tourists. It seems that the Japanese are very interested in these women’s cause and contribute much to the House of Sharing in time and talents. Many of these women have gone through art therapy to deal with the demons of their past. Their pictures are on display in the museum–poignant and moving.

So in one weekend I had seen how art can be used to express moving, emotional beauty and moving, emotional degradation. Perhaps it’s these extremes that have put me on autopilot.

The problem with autopilot is you’re being steered by a preordained course. Winter will take its time; the job will continue to bring its routine but also its surprises; art will be there for the seeking; history will unfold in the search for truth. I’m thinking it’s time to get back into the pilot’s seat.

Today it’s cold and wet, but yesterday broke through fog and mist to become a beautiful fall day with sunshine and blue sky. Just the right weather for exploring.

Yesterday, I didn’t need reminding that “what goes up must come down.” But the reverse was even more excruciating–”what goes down must come back up”–as I trekked through the mountainous Cheorwan district on an RASKB birdwatching tour to see the migratory Red-Crowned Crane and, as a side trip, the DMZ.

The Cheorwon Theme Road winds through a large valley of rice fields, now harvested and lying in patterned rows of stubble and straw. It must be a sight to see in its spring green and summer gold, but winter also has its beauty. The valley having ample supply of water and food is on the migratory path of cranes and ducks and geese. Yes, we did see the Red-Crowned Crane. Because of its location in a military zone, all viewing had to be done from the bus, but the driver was very accommodating and slowed down every time a shout went up “Cranes on the left” or “Cranes on the right” and we would all shift to the side announced with cameras and binoculars ready and “Ooohs” and “Aahhs” marveling at their beauty. Every once in awhile we would catch site of a Mongolian crane instead–smaller, gray, and more numerous–and the “Oohs” and “Aahhs were not quite so pronounced.

I was so reminded of the Sandhill Cranes of West Texas as they would fly overhead at sunrise and sunset. It brought back memories of how they could cover the fields in the hundreds–maybe thousands–sometimes destroying our new winter wheat and ripe milo on the ranch in Wingate. But I didn’t want to put this negative–but realistic–spin on everyone’s delight.

I mentioned down and up and up and down. One of our first stops was the second infiltration tunnel built by North Korea until discovered in 1975. The Korean War ended, more or less, in the mid-50s. This tunnel was for contemporary and dubious purposes. To get to the tunnel we had to walk up a hill–heavy breathing walk!–then after donning hard hats, we went down into the tunnel about half a kilometer to the point that is under the actual border. Parts of the tunnel were high enough we could stand up as we walked, but the resounding “thump-unh” heard from those taller or just not looking ahead were constant reminders to duck at the low parts. Going down, we then had to go up. The tunnel is a reminder not to get too complacent about the ambitions of the North Koreans. They are a threat.

A picture of what that threat could mean is seen at the remains of the North Korean Labor Party building, a gutted, pock marked shell of the cement building that held the offices of the Labor Party. For five years before the Korean War the Communist Party controlled this area with brutality and torture, according to the description on the information boards and the brochure. It is a pretentious, ugly, austere, and frightening building just to look at in its decline. I shudder to think what it was like in its prime.

At the Cheorwon Peace Observatory, we climbed another breath-taking hill–at least it took my breath as I puffed and panted to the top–to get an eagle’s view of the DMZ and North Korea. The contrast in the two countries is sad. On the South side the valley is covered in rice fields and agriculture. This is a valley of rich, volcanic soil, of springs and reservoirs. On the North side no crops are visible–and this from a country whose people are starving! On the South side the mountains and hills have been reforested after generations of warfare and using wood for heating and cooking. On the North side the hills are still barren. On the South side there are people driving, working, living, moving. On the North side there is no one in sight, no movement, no vehicles. On both sides there are barbed wire, observation posts, and soldiers with guns at the ready.

I was reminded of Berlin. I was there visiting my brother in 1989 just after the wall came down. We could go into the East side, which we inadvertently did one night trying to find our way home from the Pink Floyd concert “The Wall.” The East side was frightening in its austerity, its lack of color, people, movement, even knowing we were safe. Standing there looking across the DMZ, I had that same feeling.

When we think of the Korean War, we think of Heartbreak Ridge and places like Pork Chop Hill. We think of MASH and Hawkeye’s agony at patching up young soldiers to send them back to retake a hill that is later declared unimportant. We think of the difficulty and futility of guerrilla warfare. These messages were brought home when we visited Baengmagoji Hill Monument erected to the White Horse Unit of Korean and foreign soldiers who fought against Chinese forces taking, losing, and retaking the hill twenty-four times in ten days of fierce fighting. The climb up the hill is worth it for the moment of awareness and the view where I could see into North Korea in the distance. At the top is a hugh bell of freedom which serves as an alarm for people nearby–another reminder against complacency.

Sitting on a bench at the top of the hill and monument, looking out over the valley below, visualizing those ten days of devastation that cost so many lives and reshaped the landscape, I was reminded of a similar feeling In Italy at the top of Monte Cassino. What goes up must come down. What hikes down must eventually hike back up. But history keeps going around and around.

(There are a few pictures on the photoblog, but not in the order I intended them. I still can’t figure out the picture thing!!)

This evening the relevancy of my chosen profession was brought home to me. It has always been my job. For many years it was my passion. But I have always realized the lower ranking in the echelon of the hierarchy on the professional scale–usually measured in the U.S. by salary and bonuses.

This evening I had a Thanksgiving dinner cooked by and in the home of Mrs. Kim with a few of the other members of the “Grandmother’s Club” (my name for the group) who have taken me under wing to show me Seoul and let me a little bit into their lives and also practice their English. We had a wonderful meal of marinated beef ribs, salad with a delicate yogurt dressing, chop che, kim chi, vegetable soup, beansprouts, spinach, and rice. There was also a very nice, dry red wine. I had stopped at Hans and brought a New York cheese cake with blueberry topping, and Mrs. Kim had fresh fruit and cookies. Good food; good conversation.

We talked about family and politics and religion and Korea and celadon–of which I have just been introduced and am fascinated by the delicate green color of the pottery for which Korea is famous–and culture and experiences in other countries. We exchanged recipes–I shared my tomato soup invention and they gave me directions for chop che and the salad dressing and the marinade for the beef. They talked about the medicinal value of a fermented green plum drink, and I talked about my good experiences with ginseng and vitamin B complex to ward off mosquito bites.

As we got ready to leave, I was all prepared to bundle up for the trek home–it has turned very cold here, but Mrs. Kim insisted on driving me almost to my door. I kept saying, “I really don’t mind the walk, and after that wonderful meal I probably need it!” But they wouldn’t listen, so we all piled into Mrs. Kim’s Mercedes and off we went down back streets, winding our way to my neighborhood on the other side of Apgujeong.

The clincher was when we all got quiet and they tried to explain wanting to do for me: You are a teacher. That was it. “You are a teacher.” The respect in their voices, their concern for my well-being, their openness to my company–all because “I am a teacher.”

I think we never stop learning, and maybe in some way, shape, or form we never stop teaching.
But tonight I was proud to be reminded that—I am a teacher.

I just made the most amazing tomato soup–yep, from a can. Background: A few blocks from where I live is a store called Sweet Space that has a big Campbell soup can on the storefront for advertising. Inside, they specialize in JellyBelly’s and lot of other foreign products and brands. It’s pretty pricy, but it’s my favorite place to buy jam, some Danish brand, for about $6 a jar. But–they always throw in a box of Carr’s crackers, and lately, have been giving me a few cans of tomato soup–Campbells. So I figure it’s a pretty good deal.

The weather here has turned cold–highs of 37 degrees, and lows–about the time I leave for work!–around 27 degrees. Tonight was perfect grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup time. I had a fresh tomato that really needed using, so I put that in the soup with a can of water and then added about a half cup of kim chi. Oh, my gosh, was it ever delicious! And just what a cold almost winter evening called for!

I seem to be writing about food quite a lot, but I’m realizing that when you live in a foreign place, relying on the pictures on the packages, and what you can pick up each evening at the Mom-Pop grocery or on from the street vendors or from the take-out restaurants where I’ve figured out what are a few of the items on the menu–you tend to think about food quite a lot. One of the guys I work with told me he thinks about his next meal all the time–what will it be, where’s it coming from, who he’ll share it with, etc. I know that as I walk home in the ever increasing darkness, I’m thinking, “OK, what am I in the mood for, what do I have in my tiny refridgerator, where do I need to stop to get something else, how much of a detour will that be?”

My grilled cheese sandwich and Campbells’ tomato soup with Korean infusion turned out just great–and I suspect it will be even better tomorrow since I seemed to make quite a lot.

All my life November 11th has been Veteran’s Day. Being an Air Force Brat, whose father served in WWII, and being raised around veterans of WWII, the Korean War, and what seemed to be the ever present Cold War, and as an adult agonizing through Vietnam, the Gulf War, Iraq, and Afghanistan, Veteran’s Day has always been very real and personal.

Korea is a country that has seen war, rebellion, colonization by Japan, and it’s own civil war in just the last century. It is a country full of veterans of all those conflagrations. But November 11th here is celebrated with Paparoe. There may be another date commemorating veterans here that I am not aware of, but this day of 11.11 is a time to bring out the Paparoe.

Every convenience store had huge displays of Paparoe in everything from simple boxes, to cellophane wrapped gift baskets, to stuffed animal-like Paparoe. I had no idea what was going on. I wish I had taken some pictures, but I had no idea what was happening. The displays were elaborate, yet I hadn’t read of any special holiday. My calendar doesn’t have the day singled out in red–a sign that it is a special holiday and we should get a day off from work. But when I got to school, we had a special treat of Paparoe. Several teachers who have been here for several years, came by my room and dropped off a Paparoe just for me!

What’s going on? ! ?

What’s special is the date: 11.11. Paparoe is a pretzel-like stick (without the salt) dipped in chocolate, thus the same shape as 1111. To celebrate the 11.11, it is customary to buy Paparoe and give to friends. It’s just a friendly, fun thing to do for people you like–as far as I can figure out. The Paparoe is quite inexpensive–or not, depending on the gift level you want to buy in to–about a dollar for a box of twelve small ones.

I got into the spirit of the thing, once I figured out what was going on. On my way home from school, I stopped at a convenience store–there are soooo many in my neighborhood–and bought a few boxes. I gave one to Panque who always smiles and says hello to me when I pass his shop: “Hello, Naanncee, how are you today?” and whose wife always gives me a little something extra when I stop in to buy gimpap for supper. I gave one to the man and woman who smile at me and give me a few extra roasted chestnuts when I pass their sidewalk vendor spot. I gave one to James, the student I tutor in English on Wednesday evenings.

I wish I had known about the Paparoe tradition before hand. I can think of so many people I would have liked to have shared with on my walk to and from school, of so many people I work with, of so many people whose path I cross nearly every day.

It’s important to remember veterans, to be reminded of the high costs of wars in the toll it takes from those who fight them for us. It’s important to take at least this one day to think about those who gave their lives and the innocence of their youth to safeguard and perpetuate our ideals. These people were very much in my mind on this day of 11.11 as I also thought about friends—and munched on a chocolate covered pretzel.

I seem to have a penchant for stealing from credible authors, and this time is no different. I remember when I first read Hemmingway’s novel, Moveable Feast, about eating and his life in Paris. It’s been a long time since I’ve read it, so I won’t even attempt a literary ciriticism type thing with it, but this week has been one of “moveable feasts” where life and food have intersected.

Monday, Mina and Seong were here from Papua, New Guinea, where they are missionaries working with an aboriginal tribe to transcribe their language and begin an educational program as well as bring the message of Christ, the Bible, and the Good News. The circumstances were sad, Mina’s mother had just passed away, but our meeting was joyful. Mina, who speaks very good English, and I fell in like friends who had not seen each other in months–a truthful statement since they left to return to their mission not long after I came to Korea. They came to our school to offer prayers and meditations to Mr. Chou, Hace, and me on Monday evening. Seong is a gifted minister, and although he preached in Korean, I said, “Don’t worry about it. I pick up on the spirit so easily.” Then Mina translated so I would get the gist of his message. After prayers, Seong was called out on a phone call, and Mina asked if she could sing a song for me. First she talked about the message of the song, then she sang in a clear, bell toned voice “You Lift Me Up.” Her message was not to forget that God is there to lift us up to do things we never thought we could do, which I truly take to heart.

But this is about food! After our meeting we all went out to dinner at a place buried in the warren of eateries in the Apgujeong area that Mr. Chou and Hace know so well. The food was delicious: a huge, mung bean pancake, dumplings the size of your fist, delicious, spicy soup, and lots of Korean side dishes. Hace told me these were North Korean dishes, so a little different from what we’re used to. You should have seen Seon’s face as he savoured each bite saying, “This is the dish I miss the most in the bush!”

It was a joy to see Mina and Seong enjoying the meal. They work for the New Tribes Mission out of Florida, and truly live in the bush as natives do. Supplies come about every three months. Did you know that eggs can last unrefridgerated for about two months? I started to title this “Two Month Eggs” because that’s just one of the facts about their life that stuck with me. They are dealing with an indigineous tibe that has no written language–that’s their job, to write it down, which they have done. They are dealing with traditions–polygamy–and superstition, especially surrounding death, and still bringing health, hygiene, literacy, and Christianity to these people. Electricity is a valued commodity to them, as are just about all the other basics of life we can imagine and that we take for granted.

It was a good visit. We worshipped, we talked, we ate, we laughed, we sang, we prayed, and we renewed friendships.

But I mentioned feasts, in the plural. Another memorable meal was held at Zelen’s, a Bulgarian restaurant in Itaewan. It was Dee Ann’s and Kerri’s birthday, so all the expat and Korean kindred spirits were gathering to celebrate. The food, and the amount of food, was unbelievable. It was almost like being back in Hungary with the mix of meat and roasted vegetables and pickles. We stayed for quite some time just enjoying the good food and the ambiance. Dee Ann will soon be leaving Korea as will a few others who were at the table. We’re planning a Good-bye Brunch for next weekend for those leavers. It was just a nice evening out with friends, food, wine, good beer–for me, and good company.

A Moveable Feast: Hemmingway wrote this as an expatriot living in Paris in the 1920s. He wrote about his life as a writer, his friends, his life as the husband of Hadley. He wrote about living in a foreign country. He wrote about the food. How ironic that that title should pop into my mind as I think back over this past week: my expat and Korean friends, my life here, and the food. The Feast goes on.